


The Heart of the Heartless

by astudyinsociopaths



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fingerfucking, Fix-it fic, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of past drug use, Post S3, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, The best of both worlds, bottomlock, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:33:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinsociopaths/pseuds/astudyinsociopaths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John's divorce from Mary, he spends the first Valentine's Day of his newly-single life with Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Heart of the Heartless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mu5icliz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mu5icliz/gifts).



> This fic is for mu5icliz, from the tumblr Johnlock Valentine's Day Gift Exchange. It was based off the prompt "John spends his first Valentine's Day, after his divorce with Mary, with Sherlock". I hope I did it justice!
> 
> Many thanks to [singthestars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/singthestars) for the beta!
> 
> Find me on [my tumblr](http://www.astudyinsociopaths.tumblr.com)!

Sherlock’s eyes roamed the flat. Everything was in order, so he had no real reason to be apprehensive. Today was Valentine’s Day. More specifically, it was going to be the first Valentine’s Day that John spent back at Baker Street.

 

In fact, Sherlock mused, this was going to be the first Valentine’s Day that they had ever spent together. There was the first Valentine’s Day after they’d met but John had spent that in some cheap restaurant with some woman he’d met in a pub. Then there was the second Valentine’s Day that John had spent with… Haley? Hannah? The physical therapist with that annoying, wheezing laugh.

 

The following Valentine’s, Sherlock had just thrown himself off the roof of a hospital and spent the day in Argentina. John had most likely been alone. Sherlock didn’t know for certain and he never asked.

 

Nearly a year later, Mary had come along. That fourth year John hadn’t been alone. He’d been happy, in fact. Sherlock was irrevocably grateful that Mary had been there for John, helping him through an undoubtedly unhappy period of his life.

 

 _Mary_. Mary Morstan, the woman that John had fallen in love with. The woman he’d married, the woman who bore his child. The woman who’d aimed a gun at Sherlock’s chest and pulled the trigger.

 

John had been too stubborn to ever admit to Sherlock that his marriage was failing. It didn’t matter; Sherlock saw it anyway. All the evidence was there, plain as day. John asked to go on more cases and he would often sleep in his old bedroom at Baker Street those nights, claiming he was too exhausted for the trip home. Sometimes John would come over unannounced and Sherlock knew from the tensing in his jaw and the way he held his shoulders back that he’d just been in a particularly nasty argument.

 

So by the time Evangeline Hope Watson was born, John and Mary’s divorce proceedings were already underway. With a little nudge from Mycroft and the benefit of predetermined joint custody, the Watsons were legally divorced by the 5th of February and John was back in Baker Street the very next day.

 

Sherlock dropped his hands from where they were propped on his hips. John had gone out to get some wine, leaving Sherlock in charge of cooking. The entire ordeal was tedious, but he cooked the best salmon risotto he’d had in years because today was for John, and John deserved the best.

 

Downstairs the door to outside slammed shut and Sherlock heard John’s familiar steps as he trudged up the stairs and pushed open the door to the flat.

 

John secured two brown paper bags under one arm as he closed the door behind him. The bottles were then deposited on the counter and Sherlock moved to retrieve two plates from the cabinet above John’s head.

 

“Glad to see you weren’t joking,” John said. Sherlock fixed him with a quizzical glance and he continued, “You. Cooking, I mean. I was sort of expecting the flat to be on fire when I came back.”

 

Sherlock scoffed as he jostled through the silverware drawer. “Cooking is science, John. It’s only natural that I’d be exceptional at it.” He triumphantly fished two forks out of the drawer and slid it shut.

 

“Right. Of course you are. Remind me again, what _aren’t_ you good at?”

 

Sherlock transferred the dish of food onto the table. His mind immediately went to his first year at Eton. His father had encouraged him to join the rugby team under the pretense of making new friends, and he’d obliged. In the span of fifteen minutes he’d managed to get knocked to the ground twice, tear his shirt, and bloody his nose. It had been then that he decided to never again play rugby. The silence stretched on for so long that John laughed as he grabbed two mugs for the wine.

 

Sherlock, of course, eyed the mugs with distaste. “It isn’t my fault we don’t have anything better,” said John as he grabbed one of the bottles from the counter before sitting down at the table.

 

After a considerable amount of silence in which the wine was poured and the risotto portioned, Sherlock said, definitively, “Rugby. I am not good at rugby.” For reasons unknown to Sherlock, this sent John into yet another fit of laughter. The detective scowled as John fought to compose himself before replying.

 

“You? You played rugby? You’re kidding, Sherlock, you have to be. That has got to be the… the most un-Sherlock thing on this planet.” He dissolved into laughter once again and Sherlock wished he’d just choke on his rice already. “But seriously,” John continued, “When did you play rugby? You’ve never mentioned it before.”

 

“Obviously not,” said Sherlock. “I’ve just told you I’m awful at it, it’s not something I like to think of. I played rugby as a child. My father insisted, of course. I suppose I took pity on him, what with Mycroft and I normally being oriented in the… finer things.”

 

John hummed in reply, scooping more of the risotto onto his plate. “I suppose that’s fair. You’re good at everything else, I was beginning to doubt you had a weakness.”

 

“A weakness? Honestly, John. You’ve been watching to many films. Yes,” he deadpanned, dramatically. “Rugby. My true weakness. My unease with the shorts and the sheer amount of testosterone will be the end of me.”

 

 

 

John made a rude gesture and everything was well.

 

* * *

 

 

“Sherlock, that’s impossible.”

 

“No it isn’t, don’t be… ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous.”

 

“It can’t really be the housemaid. That’s not even… that’s not even an option, Sherlock.” John stared down at the Cluedo board, his brows fixed in a puzzled expression. “It can’t be her. She’s not even in this!”

 

“That’s the only logical explanation, John. It _had_ to have been the housemaid. No one else could have done it.” Sherlock sat on the floor across from John, leaning his back against his chair. He shifted and slouched down further, lifting his sock-clad feet to rest on John’s chair. He raised his mug to his lips with both hands, sipping at the wine inside. He should stop drinking. He really, _really_ wasn’t going to be happy in the morning.

 

John, now leaning precariously over the Cluedo board, abruptly moved his hand to touch the hole in the middle of the board, effectively scattering the game pieces onto the carpet. “Wuss this?”

 

Sherlock didn’t answer and finished off the wine in his mug.

 

“Oh. That’s where it was… um,” John finished feebly, craning his neck with obvious effort to look up at the mantle. Upon it lay a small dagger that had previously pinned the Cluedo board to the wall.

 

John readjusted himself, stretching out his legs until his toes rested beneath Sherlock’s thigh. He wiggled them just a bit, exhaling as he reached for his own mug.

 

There was a moment of silence before both men began to speak at once.

 

“How is Eva-”

“I missed-”

 

Sherlock set his mug on the ground beside him. “You go,” he said, tilting his head back until it rested on the seat of his chair.

 

“I missed this,” John finished quietly. . “I missed the cases and… everything, but I missed this, too. Just sitting. Just being friends, y’nno, not colleagues.”

 

Sherlock shifted his gaze away from John. He felt guilty, understanding the truth behind John’s words. After the wedding John had picked up an extra shift at the clinic. They rarely saw each other, save for the occasional case. They had gone backwards, reverting to some shallow acquaintanceship instead of the rich friendship they had used to share. Sherlock _loathed_ it.

 

“D’you wanna know something?” asked John, nudging Sherlock with his foot to get the detective to look back over. Sherlock, on a whim, nodded.

 

“I’ve been in love twice in my life. Everyone said I was in love with Suzie Thompson in Uni, but I wasn’t. The first time I fell in love was in Afghanistan.” John smiled a bit, lolling his head to one side. “His name was Avery Clarkson and he was going to be a pilot. Avery was… was… so good. He was just _good_. Everyone liked him. Then one day he was just… gone. Just like that,” John said, attempting to snap his fingers and failing miserably. “After he died I didn’t know what to do with myself. So I volunteered for a raid, got shot. Came to London.”

 

After that, John seemed to struggle for the words to continue. “That was the first time. The second time… ended… not good.” Sherlock nodded, shutting his eyes momentarily. He thought of how happy John and Mary had seemed. He even thought about how happy he’d been. When he first came back to London he wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe John had gotten a girlfriend, sure, but a fiancée? Words could not describe the despicable sinking feeling in the pit of Sherlock’s gut when he’d seen them together at the restaurant, the obvious bulge of a ring-box nestled in John’s suit jacket.

 

“But then you came back.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “What?” He managed to choke out, surprise written all over his face. John still had his head turned away, his eyes half-shut. His mind kicked into gear, processing. John couldn’t possibly mean-

 

“Yeah. I didn’t even know it until I saw you up on that roof. I don’t know how, but… I just… I saw you up there and I _knew_ and there were so many things I didn’t tell you. So when you died, I thought, ‘Oh. Again. Okay, yes, never doing this again’, because why would I want to? Both of- the only two people that I- they _died_. I thought I was cursed or something.”

 

Sherlock could only stare at John in mute shock.

 

“After you came back, Sherlock, it was… I was so angry, y’nno? And Mary helped me. She was there when I was alone and I couldn’t just leave her. I couldn’t. But I guess I just stayed with her then because I was angry at you.”

 

John exhaled and shut his eyes. “Things got better, too,” John continued. “I thought it was going to be just fine, all three of us. Thought I could get married but still have you in my life.”

 

Abruptly John stood, grabbing his mug and stumbled over to the counter where the bottle of wine was. John loved him? _Him?_ That wasn’t possible. John always relished the opportunity to correct anyone who had the gall to refer to them as a couple.

 

That is, until the Baskerville case. John hadn’t denied it then. And maybe John wasn’t gay, not strictly, but he was surely bisexual. He’d openly admitted to loving another man, which meant… Perhaps that first night at Angelo’s, John had been asking, after all. Had he wanted Sherlock right from the start? It seemed impossible at the time, but now, in light of this new information Sherlock wasn’t so sure anymore.

 

The detective watched in tense silence as John came back over, swaying just a bit, before he settled back on the floor. One leg was pulled up to his chest, the other sprawled flat against Sherlock’s leg.

 

“She tried to kill you. I know you said it was… was _surgery_ or whatever, but it wasn’t. She shot you right-” John leaned forward, pressing the tip of his finger into Sherlock’s chest. “Here. My wife tried to kill my best friend, and for what?” John did not move his hand away. “After that, I only stayed with her for the baby.”

 

There was a long pause. John finally leaned back and continued to nurse his wine, looking anywhere and everywhere but at Sherlock. A tense silence filled the air, riddled with uncertainty and unspoken thoughts.

 

Sherlock was hardly able to process the weight of John’s speech in his muddled state. John had loved him before he jumped, that much was now obvious. But everything else was new to him. He’d known that the aftermath of the case regarding Charles Magnussen had plunged the Watson’s marriage into turmoil, but John was kind and loyal. He’d never expected it to come to this.

 

“Sherlock?” He looked up. John had fixed him with a gentle gaze, his lips parted. “Why’d you leave my wedding early?”

 

Sherlock flushed violently and had to turn away from John’s piercing gaze. He’d known John would notice his absence, but he couldn’t force himself to stay any longer. He’d felt enclosed, like he couldn’t breathe. He’d desperately wanted a cigarette. It had been selfish of him to leave when he could have managed to endure the party for a few more hours at most, but it was too much to watch John dance with Mary and look so stupidly happy.

 

“You felt it too, didn’t you?” John breathed, inches from Sherlock’s face once more. _Christ_. When had that happened? Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat and his heart hammered in his chest. John’s breath smelled like wine.

 

John closed his eyes and leaned in further, pressing his mouth firmly to Sherlock’s. Sherlock barely had time to react before there was a hand sliding into his curls, another stroking across his cheekbone. John pulled away after a long moment, his dark eyes searching Sherlock’s.

 

“I wish you’d taken me with you. Two years ago, when you jumped. I would have wanted to,” he said, brushing another kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

 

“I-I couldn’t risk it,” Sherlock croaked out, losing his train of thought as John slid closer, nuzzling at the underside of Sherlock’s jaw. “I always thought that… Christ. Um, I always thought something like this would happen. _John_. John, listen to me. It’s very important. It would have placed you in danger, being with me. I couldn’t do that to y-”

 

His words were swallowed as John crushed their lips together again and finally, Sherlock relented. He wound an arm around John’s waist and all put dragged him forward until their chests were flush, John’s legs folded beneath him.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” John was saying. “It doesn’t matter now. Come to bed with me.” John began to shift away, taking Sherlock’s hands in his own.

 

“You’re drunk,” stated Sherlock, allowing himself to be hoisted to his feet.

 

“So are you,” John retorted, tugging again on Sherlock’s hand and dragging him through the flat to Sherlock’s bedroom. Before they crossed the threshold John backed Sherlock up against the wall, exhaling sharply. He kissed him tenderly multiple times. “I want this. I’ve waited long enough. Sherlock. Come to bed with me.”

 

Sherlock followed John into the bedroom and closed the door.

 

* * *

 

 

Harsh morning light filtered in through the window. Inside the bedroom, Sherlock lay sprawled half atop the duvet, his face pressed into a pillow. He stirred into wakefulness, groaning as he did so.

 

His head was throbbing and his throat was dry. There was a heavy weight across his lower back and an unpleasant twinge in his arse every time he moved.

 

Sherlock let out a heavy breath and moved to sit up, dislodging the weight- an arm- from his back. He rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands, blinking to clear his blurred vision. He pressed his cool fingers to his temples and surveyed the man beside him.

 

John looked younger when he was asleep. The stress-lines in his forehead melted away and his jaw was relaxed, unclenched. John’s lips were parted, still a bit swollen, and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel the giddy flutter in his chest.

 

He trailed his eyes further downwards. He felt compelled to hide his smile at the multitude of purpling bruises christening John’s neck. The doctor would certainly not be happy about that, though Sherlock didn’t remember him complaining the night before.

 

Finally his gaze caught on the starburst scar on John’s chest. It was red and slightly raised, agitated from the attention it had received. Much to John’s annoyance, Sherlock had been utterly fascinated by the damaged flesh. He’d studied it in unabashed awe, feeling over the smooth edges, pressing into the center.

 

John, to his credit, had barely flinched. He had endured the examination with quite persistence. In the end it had worked to his advantage, as Sherlock soon after recaptured John’s lips, pressing him into the mattress with an utterance of ‘ _mine_ ’.

 

When Sherlock returned his gaze to John’s face he was surprised to see the man awake and watching him, his clear blue eyes rapt with curiosity.

 

“Didn’t get a good enough look last night?” he asked. Sherlock thought it was meant to sound bitter, though John didn’t quite get there.

 

If John were anyone else, if they were under different circumstances, Sherlock may have been embarrassed. But things being as they were, he simply said, “I like to look at you.”

 

John laughed, which Sherlock thought was a decidedly good thing. He vowed then to make John laugh as often as he could. John looked _happy_ when he laughed, not at all like a man who’d just lost his family and drunkenly shagged his best friend.

 

“Right,” Sherlock said, shifting up a bit more and sliding his legs off the bed. “I’m going for a shower. Oh. Your pants are under the bed, by the way.”

 

“Like hell you are,” John said, lurching forward and grabbing Sherlock’s wrist. “You aren’t going to run away from this, Sherlock. We need to talk. I don’t care if you don’t want to.”

 

Stunned, Sherlock pried his arm away from John, fixing him with a cool glance.

 

“I’m not ‘running away’, John. I’m going to have a shower. I wanted to have one last night, but if I remember correctly, you wouldn’t let me out of the bed. Anyway, what’s there to talk about? You wanted to fuck me and I let you. I understand if you don’t want it to happen again, but you needn’t prepare an entire ‘it-was-nice-but-let’s-stay-friends’ speech. I’m saving you the trouble and the embarrassment.” He stood, starting for the bathroom.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

John’s tone forced the detective to a halt. Sherlock folded his arms and turned back to John, his heart hammering in his chest. If John really insisted on it, Sherlock would listen. Sherlock would pretend not to care and, if John wished it, Sherlock would pretend the previous night never happened.

 

“That isn’t what I want to happen. Is that what you want? Because everything I said last night… I meant it. Did you… I mean, I hope that wasn’t just a casual fuck for you, because it… it was supposed to be more, Sherlock. So much more.” John’s eyes were wide and trusting and it took everything Sherlock had not to look away.

 

He didn’t say anything; he didn’t have the words to describe to John the well of emotions writhing about inside his chest.

 

“Was it a mistake?” John finally asked. “For you. Do you think last night was a mistake?”

 

John’s face crumpled when Sherlock’s answer was not quick in coming. Sherlock moved back to the bed and sat, staring at the ground.

 

“It wasn’t a mistake. Being with you is never a mistake, John, and I want you to know that I cherish every moment we spend together.” When Sherlock looked up, John was beaming at him.

 

“That’s all I needed to hear. Go and shower, then. We can have a proper conversation over tea and toast.” John collapsed back onto the bed, closing his eyes, still smiling to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

A little over an hour later, both men were showered and dressed, sitting across from each other at the table crowded with case files and experiment notes. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, nursing his tea as he propped his feet up to rest on John’s chair.

 

John was truly miraculous that he could have such an impact on the detective’s life. Before John, Sherlock thrived on the cases. The necessities of his body were second to the thrill of the chase, the pride of apprehending a criminal.

 

His mind would often go stagnant in the days before John. Those were the times that he turned to drugs to fill the void. Soon enough the cases weren’t enough for him, and the occasional high turned into a full-blown addiction.

 

By this point in time he was being threatened by Mycroft and Lestrade alike, and the message was clear: get clean or the work stops. So he’d done as they asked, however begrudging he’d been at the time.

 

Now he was immensely glad he’d stopped shooting up. The man sitting across from him was more precious than the drugs and the thrill Sherlock felt from simply being around John far surpassed any high he’d achieved in the years past.

 

“So,” started John, jolting Sherlock from his thoughts. The doctor sipped at his tea. “Was this a one time thing?”

 

“Do you want it to be?” Sherlock answered. His stomach turned and he placed his tea on the table, willing the sudden sick feeling away.

 

“Do you?”

 

“I asked you first.”

 

“No,” John said resolutely. “I don’t want it to be.” John looked down, clearly embarrassed. “But you don’t _do_ relationships, Sherlock. You’ve made that quite clear from day one. And I’m not- If this is just going to be some casual thing for you, then I don’t want to continue… whatever this is.”

 

“Do I honestly seem like the type of person to enjoy casual sex?” Sherlock stared at John and couldn’t help but be offended. “There is literally _nothing_ about me that could have given you that impression. I do not play well with others, John. I have never before desired a relationship with another human. Romantic, sexual, or otherwise.”

 

“But you want that with me?”

 

“I’ve made that abundantly clear, yes.”

 

There was a long pause. Then, “Bit awkward, this,” John said, clearing his throat and sitting up a bit, accidentally dislodging Sherlock’s feet.

 

Sherlock stood and grabbed his mug, unable to just sit there and stare blankly at John for any longer. He dumped his tea into the sink before moving to go into the living room.

 

“So that’s it, then? Sherlock, you can’t just-” John was silenced by the detective’s cool glare.

 

“I’m not running away, John. I’m doing quite the opposite, if you’d shove past your insecurities and just listen.”

 

“Listen? To what? Sherlock- Oh.” John had followed Sherlock into the living room where he was tuning his violin.

 

Sherlock gestured for John to sit, and he did.

 

“I… composed. While I was ‘dead’. Not very often, but on the nights that I was alone and… missing you I would compose. I’m not good with words, John. But I can show you how I feel if you just let me.” He waited patiently for John’s answer, but the taught line of his shoulders gave away his anxiety.

 

“I- yes. Of course, Sherlock. If that’s how you’d like to do it.”

 

Sherlock brought the violin to his chin and began to play, closing his eyes as he did so.

 

His fingers slid along the strings, the melody so familiar to him now. The achingly sweet chords had soothed him all those horrendous nights while he was abroad, reminding him of London, of Baker Street, of John.

 

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding as the last note rang out, proud and clear. He didn’t dare open his eyes yet; he feared seeing rejection in John’s eyes.

 

“Sherlock,” John breathed. His voice sounded closer and when Sherlock opened his eyes, John was only a foot from him, awestruck. “That was… _beautiful_ , Sherlock, I don’t even know how to… I can’t possibly put that into words. What’s it called?”

 

“ ‘Au coeur de la sans coeur’. It’s French. It means ‘the heart of the heartless’.”

 

Sherlock flushed violently, wondering if John understood the meaning behind the title. When it became clear that he did not know, Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat to explain.

 

“For the longest time I was… alone. Not always literally alone, but alone… here,” he said, tapping John’s chest. “I’ve been called many things, John. Freak, psychopath, show-off, fake. I’ve never minded because even if those labels aren’t true, they hold some merit. I’ve had good reason to claim all of those titles. But the one that I will not accept is heartless. I am not heartless, John, though if you had asked anyone that four years ago you would have found the opposite to be true. I am not heartless, John, because _you_ are my heart. In every sense of the meaning, you are… all that is good within me.

 

“Before I met you I did not care about people. To be honest, I still don’t care for many of them. But you’ve changed me. You make me desire to be better, John, in everything that I do. I’m a show-off and I will continue to be a show-off for the rest of my days if it means you’ll be there to praise me.

 

“I have no sense of obligation to care for my physical body. Unfortunately for you, I will continue to disregard this necessity if it means that I will have you to watch over me. My dependency on you has grown so paramount that I have succumbed to inventing pitiful cases in the hopes of destroying your meager dates. I have-”

 

Sherlock’s words died in his throat, along with a small noise of surprise. John had tipped forward and kissed him, twining his hand into Sherlock’s curls as he went.

 

“You bloody gorgeous, _infuriating_ madman. I will love you to the day I die, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock had no time to reply before John was kissing him again, over and over. His back hit the cool glass of the window and John pressed against him, moving his hands up to frame Sherlock’s head.

 

Sherlock broke the kiss to breathe, leaning his head back against the window, his mind racing as he sucked in heaving breaths. There wasn’t much of a reprieve, however, as John’s lips almost immediately attached to his neck, biting at sucking at the pale skin.

 

Sherlock could hardly believe this was happening, if he was totally honest. Feelings admitted in a drunken stupor were one thing, but this was an entity in itself. John was doing something extraordinary with his tongue just _there_ and this time he wasn’t drunk, wasn’t sloppy.

 

One moment John was grinding his hips into Sherlock’s, his arousal insistent against the detective’s thigh, then the next he had dropped to his knees, working at Sherlock’s button and zip with his deft fingers.

 

“John-” Sherlock gasped out, leaning back and bracing himself on the glass. John had pressed his face against Sherlock’s clothes erection and he mouthed lazily at the bulge. Sherlock nearly lost it right then and there, but then John pulled down Sherlock’s trousers and pants and closed his mouth over the head of his cock.

 

Sherlock made an obscene noise when John swirled his tongue, closing his eyes and helplessly clenching his hands at his sides.

 

John’s hands held steady on Sherlock’s hips, rubbing small circles into the juncture of Sherlock’s thigh as he bobbed up and down. Sherlock had just about managed to gather his wits, and then John ran his tongue along his slit and Sherlock bucked his hips forward, shuddering at the sensation.

 

“Christ, sorry, _sorry,_ ” said Sherlock, shakily carding his fingers through John’s hair as the other man pulled off, sputtering a bit.

 

“It’s fine,” John said, taking a deep breath. “You’re sensitive. I wasn’t expecting that.”

 

John was reaching out to grab Sherlock’s cock again, but John’s lips were wet and swollen and Sherlock couldn’t help but drag him up and kiss him, tasting himself on John’s tongue.

 

“Bed?” Asked John, pulling away but keeping his gaze on Sherlock’s lips.

 

“Too far,” Sherlock replied, stepping out of his trousers and pants before taking John by the arm and leading him to the couch. He paused for a moment, pondering how to bring up the fact that he was still a bit sore, when John spoke up.

 

“I want to ride you. Let me, please. I just… I want that. To watch you come apart beneath me.” John’s voice was low as he sat down on the couch and began to slowly work at the buttons on his shirt.

 

Sherlock didn’t press the subject; he wanted this just as badly as John did. Leaving John to undress, he disappeared into his bedroom to grab the small bottle of lubricant he kept in his drawer.

 

When he came back into the living room John was flat on his back, slowly running a hand up and down his length. His breathing was shallow and Sherlock found himself enraptured by the gentle rise and fall of John’s chest, the lazy movements along his cock.

 

“Are you just going to watch, or do you actually intend to join me?” John asked, and in that moment Sherlock loved John so fiercely it nearly hurt.

 

Sherlock made his way to the couch and settled himself between John’s parted thighs. He opened his mouth to pose a question but was cut off before he could begin.

 

“Yes, I’ve had a cock up my arse before. No, not recently. No, you won’t hurt me, not if you go slowly and use a lot of lube. Please, Sherlock, just get on with it or I’m going to bloody well cry.”

 

Obediently, Sherlock popped the cap open on the lube, generously coating two of his fingers before hunkering down between John’s legs.

 

He pressed one finger against John’s entrance first, looking up to gauge John’s reaction. The other man let out a breath but nodded, inviting Sherlock to continue.

 

Sherlock’s confidence grew with each passing moment. He’d done this before; he fancied himself quite good at it, in fact. So he pressed his finger inside, centimeter by centimeter, listening to John breathe.

 

He slowly rotated his hand so his palm was facing up, leaning down and pressing an open-mouthed kiss along John’s thigh. He crooked his finger upwards, searching, and when John sharply cried out a moment later Sherlock knew he’d located the doctor’s prostate.

 

John had moved both of his hands to cover his face. “Fucking hell,” he exhaled. “Just- yeah. Like that.”

 

Sherlock pulled out a bit and applied more lube before sliding back in, this time with a second finger close behind. John hissed out a breath at the new intrusion, but his muscles soon relaxed around Sherlock’s fingers.

 

Sherlock once again sought out that sweet spot inside of John and had only just brushed against it when John reached down and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, holding tightly.

 

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he said, and Sherlock was pleased to note that John’s eyes were wide, pupils dilated, and his voice was an octave lower than normal. “I can come from just that, if I’m aroused enough. And there is no bloody way I want to get off without you inside of me. So just… leave it for now, yeah? There will be time for this later.”

 

Sherlock just nodded, awestruck. There were so many things he wanted to do; so many places he craved to kiss, to touch, to explore. He wanted to take John Watson apart just so he could be the one to put him back together, piece by piece, inch by inch. He wanted to make John laugh and cry and scream and writhe in pleasure, to see exactly what made this man tick. He wanted all of that, and John had just given him permission to do so.

 

Sherlock settled into an easy pace. John rocked back onto his fingers, circling his hips and making soft, breathy noises that sent bolts of arousal straight to Sherlock’s groin.

 

Eventually John changed the pace, beginning to grind down harder, his hand drifting back to his cock. Sherlock picked up on the cues and pulled his fingers out, ignoring the small noise of disappointment that parted John’s lips.

 

The other man sat up and crowded Sherlock, capturing his lips. “Lie back,” John instructed, splaying a palm across Sherlock’s pale chest and pushing down. John straddled Sherlock’s legs, leaning over to grab the bottle of lube where it lay on the table.

 

“Right. Try not to move too much until I’m ready, yeah? It’s been a while and you aren’t exactly small,” said John, reaching out and firmly slicking Sherlock’s cock. He twitched a bit at the cool gel, but smirked as John spoke. “Not that I mind.”

 

With that, John secured the base of Sherlock’s cock and propped himself up. He eased down onto Sherlock, his lips parted in concentration.

 

It took all of Sherlock’s willpower not to buck up into John, so instead he placed his hands on John’s hips, digging his fingers into the flesh there as he exhaled hard. The head of his cock slipped into John and he whimpered, his eyes fluttering shut.

 

“You alright? Don’t remember you being this vocal last night,” John muttered, grunting as he sunk down lower.

 

“Fine, just… never been on this end before. It’s…” Sherlock trailed off, unable to finish. It was too much and not enough all at once. The tight, wet heat was nearly driving him insane, he needed to _move_ and he couldn’t, so he just chewed on his lip.

 

Suddenly the angle intensified and Sherlock’s eyes flew open, mouth gaping in surprise. John was inches from his face, having leaned over to kiss Sherlock.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmured, peppering small kisses everywhere he could reach. “You ridiculous man. I love you.”

 

If John expected a reply he didn’t show it, and Sherlock was grateful. Sherlock could name the individual attributes of over two-hundred different types of tobacco ash, but somehow the ability to name these emotions were beyond him.

 

For so long he’d repressed them, shoved them deep into his mind palace, never to be seen again. But then John had come into his life and broken down the walls one by one.

 

Sherlock took a breath and desperately wanted to try and say something, to give John some sort of reassurance, but John sunk down the last few inches and all cognitive functioning was lost.

 

Sherlock lifted one hand from John’s hips and pressed it over John’s heart. It was racing, just like Sherlock’s, and when Sherlock lifted his gaze John was already watching him, expression soft.

 

Without looking away, John raised himself up and sunk back down, hard. A moan parted Sherlock’s lips and his head dropped back to the couch. Sherlock’s hand trailed down from John’s chest, intending to wrap around John’s cock before it was swatted away.

 

“No,” John said firmly. “Not yet. I’m not going to last long as it is. Don’t touch me yet.”

 

Sherlock let his hands fall to the couch, clenching and unclenching uselessly.

 

When John finally created a suitable rhythm, Sherlock was able to thrust up as John bore down, evoking a low moan from the both of them. His hands went back to John’s hips and before long he was in control of the pace, roughly pulling John down as his hips rose to meet him.

 

“Fuck,” John panted, throwing out an arm and grabbing the back of the couch to steady himself. He began to stroke himself in time with Sherlock’s thrusts, sliding his thumb over the plump head on each pull.

 

“Sherlock,” John said. “Sherlock. I’m going to- _oh-_ ” John shuddered and came, teetering over Sherlock. The tremors coursing through John’s body were enough to push Sherlock over the edge, so with a final thrust he buried himself deep into John and came.

 

Still breathing hard, John shifted up and off Sherlock, collapsing onto his side. Sherlock turned as well, leaning halfway on John so he could kiss the other man.

 

“I love you,” said Sherlock earnestly, before he kissed John again.

 

“I know,” John replied, resting his cheek on Sherlock’s curls as the detective laid his head on John’s chest.

 

They laid together like that for a long time, John just breathing, Sherlock tapping out the beats of the song he’d written for John onto the man’s chest.

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, John,” Sherlock said after a while.

 

John laughed and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s messy curls. “Bit late, but yeah. Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock.”

 


End file.
